The Innocent

Abroad

An Islands Epic, By T. L. Wynne JIM had just reached man’s estate when he arrived in New Guinea. And he brought with him an abundance of faith in mankind—sufficient, in fact, to move Kosciusko.

He had an enjoyable trip up on the “Montoro”. Also on board were two Old Timers, miners returning from a well earned vacation. Jim would listen to their tales of adventure, fights with cannibals, lonely trails, etc., with both ears—and wish he had a third.

One dav, while the old boat was steadily pushing back the Australian coastline, the two O.T.’s leaned against the rail, waiting impatiently for the 4 o’clock session. Along the promenade deck came

Jim in immaculate flannels, and wearing a smile that any girl would be glad to sit in front of and have a tooth drawn. He joined his heroes immediately.

“What’s the time, Jim?” asked O.T. No. 1.

“Three o’clock”, replied Jim, with a fine twist of the wrist.

“Damn! An hour to wait!”

Then followed a little conventional conversation between No. 1 and Jim. No. 2, in the meantime, had been busy with his thoughts. He turned to No. 1 and re marked: “Do you remember that time, Bill, when we had to fight our way through that howling mob of savages up near Mt. Hagen?”

“Do I remember it!” —in a tone imply ing he would never forget it.

Then came a pause. Jim couldn’t stand that.

“What happened?” he asked, eagerly.

With apparent reluctance, and becom ing modesty, No. 2 told how they fought their way through a ring of wild natives armed with poisoned spears; how their boys deserted them; and how, with am munition gone, and Bill with a broken arm, they eventually got down the slope of a hill to the river where, providentially, they found a native canoe.

“Bill cut the mooring rope”, continued No. 2, “and jumped in. The canoe be gan to drift with the current, leaving me stranded on the bank with that howling mob behind me. Suddenly a huge croco dile appeared. He came from the swamp close to where I stood, and made in stantly for the canoe, after having a swish at me with his tail. He nosed round the canoe, while his tail almost touched the spot where I stood.

“You know, Jim, it’s moments like these you need to think quickly. To me, that old croc, looked like nothing so much as a log bridge leading to that precious canoe and safety. So I took a flying leap, landed on the croc.’s back, and from there into the canoe!

“For two days and nights we drifted in that canoe until, more dead than alive, we reached a mission station.”

IT was a few days after that when, strolling along the deck with a fellow passenger, the latter, as he left Jim to go to his cabin, made a remark that puzzled him for a long time. “Did you think”, he said, “to put a packet of salt in your luggage?”

“Salt?”, thought Jim. “Surely there would be salt in the Islands.”

How Jim learned to use that common commodity, quite apart from meals, is really our story, as now told.

ON a bright May morning, not so long ago, Captain “Sandy” Campbell looked at his watch and found, to his astonishment, that the old-time Pride of the Fleet” had been up to her old tricks again, and had broken her own record of 14 days, Sydney to Sala maua! She came round Parsee Point with her funnel swollen with pride, and beads of perspiration on her furrowed old bows.

Jim had been at the rail since dawn.

And there, on the port bow, was the isthmus of Salamaua, with B.P.’s flag showing prominently from the store—and waving frantically, under its own power, a greeting of congratulation to the old record-breaker.

To the south and west Jim saw the green-clad hills, at the slopes of which nestled the exclusive suburb of Kela, where the rich retire after three or four

years in the Territory. Beyond the hills, he saw the dark towering mountains of the Great Inland where, remembering his tales, he could easily visualise tribes of wild men looking for heads. The mountains, however, showed nothing but fleecy patches of low-lying cloud, hanging to their sides like spots of ermine on a velvet gown.

“El Dorado” thought Jim.

“Hell of a long time, two years”, thought others, returning from leave.

Jim had come to join the staff of one of the commercial concerns here, and was soon installed in the Mess. Two messmates were Dick and Harry. Dick had been an air pilot, in the old pioneering days, and narry had knocked about the world a bit, and had had his ups and downs, too. Both were big men; both loved a practical joke. Opportunities ior entertainment and amusement in the Islands are not of too frequent occur rence. They took to Jim immediately.

IT was about this time that the sensa tional press of Australia, hard up for headlines, were featuring the “Jap.

Scare”, pending the arrival of Larwood.

In the harbour at Salamaua was one of those Japanese “mystery” ships that nose around the coasts of the world, with no other object than to shake honourable hand while keeping honourable eye wide open.

They were given the freedom of the city, and Japanese tongues clicked and Japanese cameras clicked until you couldn’t tell one from the other.

One day, at lunch, Dick addressed Harry in a subdued and serious tone, contrasting strangely with his usual happy and boisterous manner: “D’you know, Harry, I don’t like these Japs prowling round here the way they are. You can laugh if you like, but I’ve an idea they’re up to no good.”

“Well”, replied Harry, just as subdued and glum, “if they start any funny busi ness we’ll give them a run for it.’ 1 “But will we? That’s just it. Who else is there in Salamaua that regards them as anthing but friendly little fellows far from home, to be taken in and cared for?

Whom can we count on?”

Each took a side glance at Jim. Yes, he was registering. They could count on him.

That night, Jim and Dick were enjoy ing an after-dinner smoke in the mess room Harry was out, somewhere.

Suddenly something flashed with a whizzing noise past the window. Dick got up to investigate. He saw sky rockets and starshells going up everywhere. “What the . - But he had hardly uttered the words when a terrific explosion occurred, quite close to the house He darted round the room like a caged lion. “The Japs! The Japs!” he yelled.

Jim, literally carried off his feet in the excitement, followed him and shouted, “What’ll we do?”

“Get hold of something”, yelled Dick.

“Anything! Get up on to the side ver andah and guard that entrance! Let no body pass! Quick!”

Jim leapt to it. A chair was the only thing he could see. He grabbed it and went up to his post, to do or die. This was at the head of a stairway leading to the side verandah.

Explosions were occurring about every five seconds. Half obscured, behind a post, Jim gripped the chair and waited.

He hadn’t long to wait. A dark figure came round a corner, and made straight for the stairway. Another explosion shook the house.

Jim’s knees shook, too. But he had his job to do, and he was going to do it. He thought of his two Old Timers, on board the “Montoro”. What would they have done. Held the fort, or course— against all comers. And so would he. His father hadn’t been a Digger for nothing, and never let it be said . . .

The figure approached the top, head bent for speed. Jim raised the chair— and nearly dropped it as a further ex plosion shook the ground under his feet.

But he took a grip of himself—and the chair—and down it came, with all the force of Jim’s 10 stone behind it.

It brought the invader to his knees with a groan, and he slid back down the stairs on knees and stomach, until he reached the bottom where he lay, as still as the mountain tops.

It was Harry! 117 HEN the story leaked out next day, f? the whole town roared. It spread from the Watut to the Waria, from Morobe to Madang, like a fast-moving shower of refreshing rain. fit appears that the two conspirators, Dick and Harry, had purchased a parcel of fireworks at a Chinese store, including “plenty big fella' cannon”. Boys haa been instructed to let off the sky rockets and star shells at certain times and places, and Harry was to get under the raised floor of the bungalow—no soft job for a 6-ft, 15-stone man—and see to the “artillery”. After lighting his last fuse,

he made a dash to get back to his room unobserved, but—like the girl in the story—he took the wrong turning, quite unaware that such determined opposi tion had been sent to guard that en trance. That was a tactical blunder that was a sore point to Harry, for many days.

On the following evening, Dick visited

Harry's room. He thought it wise to take a bottle with him. Harry was in bed, with a bandaged head and, in his eye. a glare like that which Hitler may be expected to bestow on Churchill, when the latter visits him in the Tower of London.

“You know, Harry”, began Dick, reaching for a bottle-opener, “it cost us a few bob for fireworks —but it was worth it. It was—ha! ha! ha! — about the funniest thing I’ve . . .”

But Harry interrupted him with a grunt. He* sat up in bed, arms stiffly be hind him to support his body, head low on his chest, and with jaw protruding like that of a cod-fish, he roared: “Funny, eh? Like hell, it was!”

However, it is wonderful what the third bottle can do to a drooping spirit; and, so he began to see the funny side and, good sport that he was, joined in the general mirth.

But it was Jim who laughed last!

The 34 feet yawl “Marie”, owned and commended by Captain Frank Dona, a Dutchman, left Auckland in May, and will spend about four months cruising among the islands of the Central Pacific.